Growing Pains
by fragrantfields
Summary: Summary: A teenaged Emma Rios knows she could fit in...if they gave her half a chance. A/N: A line kept tugging at me, and I wondered it her personal history was giving Rusty's situation a special, painful meaning Warnings for racism


_"unless they're cute little blond boys."_

* * *

.

.

The woman's cheekbones were high and sharp. Her hair glided over them at just the right angle to blend genteel femininity with old-bone strength. Everything was creamy about her, except for the shadows under those cheekbones. Those were dusky faded-rose hollows. Her hair was blond, not the bright gold or platinum of the bronzed dancing ladies…but a buttery shade, like winter sun.

Emma's hand stole up to her face. Her cheekbones were high, and a little bit sharp, since she shot up two inches over the summer. _Bad planning, God,_ she thought as she looked down at the inch of ankle showing between her sock and the bottom edge of her pants. The next clothing allotment wasn't for two more months. Another discount store card, another nudge towards the seconds rack.

In the right clothes, she could fit with this lady, fit with her husband, her car, their house. Emma twirled a strand of brown-black hair around her finger before the scolding voice in her head barked a sharp "No fidgeting! Do you want them to think you're ADD?"

She pulled her finger out of the dark coil and put her hand back in her lap. The dollar store had boxes that promised to turn dark hair into colors like "Summer Wheat" and "White Chocolate," "Coastal Dune" and "Buttercream." She had allowance money coming...five dollars for every A last week, ten for taking on extra cottage chores. Maybe she could ask before the next visit.

_If there was a next visit_. She'd smiled until her cheeks felt like they would split. Made conversation about current events with her, then him. Just a little with him, though_. Make the wife like you first_, the older girls had said. The husband doesn't matter so much, but the woman has to like you, see you as a potential good daughter.

If she were blond…if she worked on her accent, blanding it up like the newswomen on television, if she stayed out of the sun…maybe this one could see her as a possible foster daughter. Her grades were good, she hadn't hooked or sold weed before she came here. She was pretty. She was clean, her skin was clear. She could do this.

The woman's eyes seemed fixed on Emma's right hand, the old scrapes at the knuckles looking dark and ashy. Emma watched the carefully lined lips tighten out of their smile for a second, then ease up again into a more wrinkle-preventing expression. _Yes, I am a fighter, when I have to be. When it is necessary. _She made her mind repeat the Spanish words in English, careful and precise, and deliberately relaxed her hand.

The man, dressing too young in his sneakers and designer shorts, cleared his throat. _Hijo de puta. _He was looking at her knuckles, too.

_Here we go. _

The woman ramped up the fake-friendly warmth, telling Emma's house parent how much they'd enjoyed meeting her. The husband chimed in, parroting what his wife said in different words. She could see it in the line of their thighs under their summer-weight khaki clothes, see it in the bracing of the narrow ankles, poised like the racehorses on the track her father had favored. They were at the gate, ready to run.

Ready to find a kid who looked more like them, sounded more like them. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, a kid who could pass. Who wouldn't cause trouble.

A kid who wouldn't bring up awkward questions from the neighbors, the friends, the clerks in stores.

She raised her chin, not caring anymore if she looked arrogant, or snobbish. They were leaving, offering a few more meaningless goodbyes. The kitchen was waiting, and if she hurried she could pick up an extra shift, show her initiative, earn some extra cash. Instead of buying hair dye, she'd build up her account, the one she'd use for an apartment if she turned eighteen and was still in the children's home.

Emma looked the woman, then the man straight in the eye as she shook their pallid hands, smiling as graciously as she had in student council. The man was an attorney in town, and who knows…his guilt over rejecting her might prod him to be a reference someday.

They walked stiffly up the slate path to the parking lot. Emma watched them get into their late model Escalade and drive away, her eyes dry and hot. Her house parent put a hand on her shoulder, offering some more meaningless words.

"I'm fine." Emma checked the clock over the tv. "Can we run through some SAT drills after I finish my shift?"

_Sure, yeah, that's what I admire about you, Emma, you're always thinking ahead, thinking about your future_.

More words.

She didn't need these pale people to give her a home. She'd make her own. And she'd live exactly how she wanted to when she was grown. She didn't need anybody pretending to be her parent.

Walking to the dining hall, Emma shoved her fists down hard in her pockets. She smiled a little when she felt her pants riding a bit lower on her hips, closing the gap at her ankles.

She could take care of herself. Fake families were for losers. And if she tried hard enough, she could forget she ever wanted one.


End file.
